Page 40 of Vows in Violence

I cup her face gently, brushing away her tears with my thumb. “Are you sure?” I ask, searching her eyes for any hesitation.

She nods, her hands gripping my shirt tightly. “Yes, Ivan. Only you.”

Chapter 15

Vivi

I’m utterly, completely exhausted,but I don’t want to sleep.

My mind tells me that I need to sleep, that I’ve been going for too long. But my body aches for my husband’s touch in a way I’ve never experienced before. I look up at Ivan uncertainly, trying to figure out this longing. I’ve enjoyed our sexual interactions up to this point in a human, biological way, but this is different.

I need him…his touch, hiscock…in some fundamental, primitive way that is as frightening as it is compelling.

He came for me. He burned this city to find me, uncaring of what that might mean for him.

As much as I’ve felt like a pawn in some game that only he knows the rules for, he has given up so much just to have me again.

Ivan Romanov loves me. In his own amoral, brutal way, the man—and the monster—loves me.

And if I’m honest with myself, I love him, as well.

There is no doubt in my mind about this.

“We are filthy,” Ivan murmurs, dragging a fingertip down the flesh of my throat. “Let’s get you showered.”

In the en suite bathroom, Ivan lifts me, setting me on the countertop, then moves away to turn the water on in the glass shower enclosure. He returns to step between my legs, and with his eyes fastened to mine, he begins to strip me. His hands are unhurried, gentle even. When I glance down to watch them travel the path of the buttons on my shirt, I catch a glimpse of a fine tremble that he stills by clenching his fists briefly in the folds of material.

“Vivi…” His voice is rough, and I shush him by raising a finger to his lips.

“I’m okay, Ivan. I’m okay.”

I toe my shoes off, urging him with a small, nipping kiss and my hands on his chest to continue. Steam is starting to fill the marble and tiled room. Ivan continues divesting me of my clothes, first my shirt and then my pants, lifting me to my feet to pull them over my hips and past my feet.

I stand and wait while he rids himself of his own clothing, and then he leads me into the shower.

With infinite care, he soaps his hands and glides them slowly, painstakingly, over my skin. His lips are pressed tightly closed as he inspects every inch of me, his breath catching on a string of Russian profanity when he reaches bruises in the shape of fingerprints on my bicep.

“I will kill him again,” he mutters. “I will find him in Hell, and I will make him suffer. I will—”

Reaching upward on my tiptoes, I kiss him, shutting him up. My hands skim over his flesh, slick with soap and hot with anger and desire. He has a wound…a knife, from the looks of it. I touch it gently.

“Does it hurt?”

“Shh, love.”

Love.My chest squeezes and then loosens as something unfurls within me beneath the pain and fear of the time spent with Nikolai. “Kiss me, Ivan. Make me forget.”

“I will make you forget,” he vows. “I will occupy your thoughts and your flesh so completely, the only thing you will remember is me.” His mouth descends upon mine, hard and hungry, and he shifts, pressing my back against the cool tiles of the wall.

I gasp a little as our bodies press together—his hardness against my softness. I arch closer to him without hesitation, my hands finding their way around his waist as he leans into me. Unbidden, a breathy sigh escapes me and echoes through the small space between us as I nuzzle my face into his chest.

“I can feel your heart beating,” I whisper. It hammers against my cheek as he digs his fingers into the fullness of my hips, pulling me close enough to feel him, thick and hard, against my belly.

I flinch, panic flaring for the briefest of seconds before I quell the sensation.

This is Ivan.My husband. Not Nikolai.

"Give me your hand," he orders quietly, loosening his grip on my hip to hold out a hand. I hesitate for a moment before slowly extending my hand toward him. He laces our fingers together as we stand beneath the pulsating water. There’s something about the simple act that feels weighty with significance as he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my fingertips.

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